


What My Brain is Bleeding For

by yourenotfree



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: A Happy Ending, Angst, GGE2017, Getting Back Together, Long-Distance, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, i know i can't believe it either, ian missing mick, journey from the border back to the border, mick missing ian, so much angst omg, these two are soulmates folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 19:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13441233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourenotfree/pseuds/yourenotfree
Summary: “That was it,” Frank’s saying now. “My pilot light was out, and Monica was the gas company.”Ian feels that in his throat.-This is my gift to @iForeverFaithful for the Gallavich Gift Exchange :)





	What My Brain is Bleeding For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iForeverFaithful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iForeverFaithful/gifts).



> This is my contribution to the 2017 Gallavich Gift Exchange. I was prompted to write a fic about Ian missing Mickey, and eventually finding his way back to him. I tried to remain true to that prompt, and I sincerely hope it's everything you hoped for! 
> 
> I was really pleased to finally have an excuse to write Ian's thoughts throughout the funeral scene, because watching it gives me chills.

Ian regrets his decision even as he’s making it.

 

Mickey’s eyes are so blue that Ian can hardly stand to look into them, and his words keep coming out all messy and scared. Ian’s only ever seen him like this a handful of times, and he feels it like a hook ripping out his internal organs, one at a time.

 

The lies slip out so easily that it’s startling. “I can’t,” he whispers, feeling wretched because he knows just how easily he _could_.

 

Ian tries to give him every cent to his name, and Mickey slaps it away in disbelief. “I don’t _want_ your fucking money,” he says furiously. “I want you to come _with_ me.”

 

Ian doesn’t know how to explain, doesn’t think he can find the right words to make Mickey understand. So he places the money gently on the dashboard, and doesn’t bother trying.

 

He tells Mickey he loves them, knowing that it’s futile and knowing that it’s selfish, because it’s the only truth he has to offer in this mess of endings.

 

Mickey drives away without looking back, and Ian watches him go until he can’t see through his tears anymore. He tries telling himself that it’s for the best, that this is the only way Mickey can ever be truly free.

 

It’s all fucking shit, and he’s not fooling anyone.

 

-

 

Everything’s madness when he gets back. Monica’s dead, and Frank’s gone off the deep end, maybe worse than he ever has. Fiona grabs Ian up in a suffocating embrace the second that she sees him, presses kisses to the side of his face with chapped lips, and whispers something Ian guesses is meant to be vaguely comforting.

 

Lip is, predictably, in the kitchen with a bottle of beer. It sits before him, untouched and unopened. Ian wonders how long he’s been staring at it.

 

“You gonna drink that?” he asks, straight to the point because his brain is short-circuiting from exhaustion.

 

Lip looks up in surprise. “I didn’t hear you come in,” he says quietly. His eyes roam back to beer. “Monica’s dead.”

 

Ian sits heavily in the chair across from him. He swipes the beer, cracks it open, and takes a sip. “Yeah. I know.”

 

Lip is studying him strangely. “You were with Mickey, weren’t you?”

 

Ian’s heart stutters nervously in his chest. His fingers tighten around the bottle in his hand. “Why do you say that?”

 

“You didn’t come to the hospital with us. Figured the only thing that could’ve been keeping you was your thug of an ex escaping prison, and pulling a disappearing act.”

 

Ian swallows down his irritation at Lip’s flippantness. He’s been trying not the think about Mickey (or Mexican sunsets, or crystal waters, or pale skin against paler sand). Naturally, it’s the only thing on his mind.

 

“I was with Mickey,” Ian confirms. He feels frustrated, because Lip’s making his Disappointed Older Brother face at him, and he’s sick and fucking tired of everyone in his family painting Mickey as some sort of epic villain.

 

“Where is he?”

 

Ian takes another swig of beer. “Not here. Not even close to here.”

 

The relief on Lip’s face is immediate. He settles back against his chair. “Good. You see why that’s a good thing, don’t you Ian?”

 

Ian feels a little sick. The burner phone seems to be growing heavier and heavier in his jacket pocket. He touches it over the fabric and feels marginally calmer.

 

“Yeah,” he tells Lip. He bites back the vomit on his tongue. “It’s a good thing.”

 

-

 

Trevor tags along to the funeral, probably out of pity more than anything else. Ian doesn’t particularly care why he’s there, doesn’t particularly care about Trevor, period. That’s not exactly fair, Ian knows. But Monica’s dead and Mickey’s driven off into the sunset without him, and a lot of things aren’t exactly fucking fair.

 

Fiona keeps sending him worried looks, like he could spontaneously combust at any moment, and it’s grating on his nerves. Ian refuses to make eye contact. He stares straight ahead, at Monica’s open casket. The sight is enough to stop up his throat.

 

Nobody’s ever really understood his relationship with Monica. Half the time, even Ian doesn’t understand it. He knows she was never the perfect mother, to put it delicately. He knows that she was selfish, and he knows that she fucked them all up, probably permanently.

 

Him especially.

 

He thinks Mickey might’ve understood, or at the very least, might’ve tried to. Even back when they were just two kids fucking around behind closed doors, Mickey always _listened_ to Ian, in a way that his siblings never had the time to.  

 

Frank moves to stand in front of Monica’s coffin. Ian’s seen Frank at his worst more times than he can possibly count, but this is a new low. There’s real devastation all over his face, and tears clogging up his eyes.

 

So, Frank really did love Monica. Ian’s not as surprised by this as he thinks he should be.

 

“Monica was the love of my life, and I knew that the first time I ever saw her,” Frank says mournfully.

 

Ian’s breath catches in his throat. There’s a strange energy in the room now, like something important is about to happen. Almost instinctively, he sits straighter in his seat.

 

“That was it,” Frank’s saying now. “My pilot light was out, and Monica was the gas company.”

 

Ian feels that in his throat.

 

Trevor touches his arm gently, but Ian can barely feel it.

 

“She taught me how to live,” Frank continues, voice growing stronger and more confident with every word. “She changed _everything_.”

 

Ian’s never really sat down and thought about it or anything, but he’s pretty sure that the best days of his life were with Mickey. He’s pretty sure nothing will ever come close to feeling the same again. These days, Ian’s whole life is muted, dull. His entire world exists in varying shades of grey. Mickey had been _vibrant_ , and more alive than any other person Ian’s ever met. Maybe it’s the pills, which he now sticks to like clockwork, but Ian knows, down in his fucking bones, that it has nothing to do with the medication. It’s Mickey.  

 

Mickey didn’t walk into his life. He came crashing in, demanding every ounce of Ian’s attention. He _stormed_ in and spun Ian clear off his axis.

 

“We loved a lot,” Frank tells them.

 

Ian closes his eyes. He sees a bead of sweat rolling down Mickey’s spine. He sees tattooed fingers reaching for his face. He sees a bitten-red mouth pulled into an exhausted smile.

 

 _We loved_ a lot.

 

Frank chuckles under his breath. “We fought a lot.”

 

And, yeah. Yeah. There was some of that, too.

 

Kissing through broken faces. Screaming matches in a church basement. Hate fucks, and hate kisses, and hate everything in between. Feeling scared, and angry, and desperate enough to try _anything_ to make him stay.

 

Ian blinks back tears. He shifts slightly in his seat, and Trevor’s hand slips from his arm.

 

“She was strong. And you’re strong. And she was brave, and you’re brave.”

 

Ian looks down at his hands because he can’t look at Frank anymore. Because he wants to dig his fingernails into the skin of his thighs until he sees _red_ blossoming under his hands.

 

He is _strong_. God, is he strong. And braver than anyone Ian’s ever known. Brave enough to stand up to his fucking terror of a father, just because Ian asked him to. Brave enough to stick around after Ian’s diagnosis, and to still want him regardless.

 

“And you wouldn’t be who you are, and I wouldn’t be who I am, if she hadn’t come into our lives.”

 

Ian knows. He can hear Mickey in his head. _You’re under my skin, man. The fuck can I do?_

“So, hate her if you want, but she’s in you, and that’s a good thing.” Frank’s voice has started breaking again. His eyes are imploding stars.

 

Frank leans over Monica’s cold, lifeless body and kisses her sweetly on the mouth. It’s short, but Ian thinks that Frank manages to convey everything he needs to say through it, and that’s kind of the whole point.   

 

Ian’s eyes follow Frank as he finishes saying his piece, and quietly exits the room. For the first time in his life, Ian feels like he sort of understands his father, like they share some common ground. Maybe they’re really not that different from one another, after all.

 

Maybe Ian Gallagher was predestined to fall in love with Mickey Milkovich. Maybe he’s never meant to _stop_ loving him.

 

-

 

A text comes through the night of the funeral. The party’s still raging downstairs, but Ian’s tired and he doesn’t see much worth celebrating.

 

It’s painfully short, just four words long, and it punctuates the hole in Ian’s chest.

 

_I’m safe, you asshole._

Ian breathes out a long sigh of relief. Tension seeps out of his shoulders, and he crawls beneath the covers to get more comfortable. His fingers linger over the buttons on the burner, itching to send a reply. There is so much information left out of Mickey’s text, and Ian doesn’t know how he’s supposed to fall asleep without it.

 

He stares at the phone in his hand until his eyes start burning. He exhales, and buries the phone beneath a mountain of laundry growing on the floor beside his bed. He lies flat on his back, closes his eyes, and thinks back to the day at the border.

 

He can’t text Mickey back. He’s not enough for Mickey anymore, and if he keeps trying to be, they’ll never be free of this constant loop they’ve been stuck in for years now.

 

Mickey deserves a chance to move on. He deserves so much more than that, but this is all Ian has left to give.

 

-

 

Ian isn’t given any time to mourn Monica. The only other member of the family who might consider mourning Monica is Frank, and Frank is nowhere to be found. The other Gallaghers get over it fast, and get on with their lives even faster.

 

Trevor keeps popping up out of nowhere. He brings Ian lunch at work, and waits on the doorstep for him to come home. He’s patient, understanding, and the exact fucking opposite of what Ian wants.

 

He breaks up with him in a cold and shitty way one day, after a particularly long shift, and finally severs all remaining ties.  

 

Lip’s the first to notice, and he wears his displeasure like a mask. “Trevor hasn’t been around in a while.”

 

Ian shrugs nonchalantly. “That makes sense, since we broke up.”

 

Lip looks like his worst fear has been confirmed. He narrows his eyes. “What happened? You guys seemed good together.”

 

Ian rolls his eyes. He turns his back on Lip and heads for the door. “Looks can be deceiving,” he tosses back, over his shoulder. He slams the door behind himself.

 

-

 

Ian comes home to a second text about a month after receiving the first. He almost doesn’t read it, but the curiosity proves too great to be ignored.

 

_The sun never stops fucking shining here. You’d have caught fire by now._

Ian smiles softly to himself, because the words are so distinctly _Mickey_. It’s a nice thought, Mickey lying on a beach somewhere in Mexico, all his troubles behind him. Ian wonders where he’s living, what he’s doing for money, if he’s made any friends. If he’s fucking someone. If he’s falling in love.

 

Ian’s stomach rolls, and he shuts his imagination down there. He shouldn’t be jealous. He has _no right_ to be jealous.

 

Later, Debbie makes the mistake of asking Ian what’s wrong. “Nothing,” he snaps irritably. “Am I not allowed to have fucking emotions anymore?”

 

Debbie’s head snaps up so fast, she practically gives herself whiplash. Her eyes are wounded and enormous. Ian immediately feels like a piece of shit.

 

“Of course you can have emotions,” she says softly, tentatively. “I didn’t mean it like that. You just looked upset.”

 

Ian stares at his shoes, and doesn’t say anything. Eventually, Debbie mutters something about checking in on Franny, and slips hurriedly out of the room.

 

-

 

Ian’s life is ruled by routine. The doctors say it’s good for him, promise that it will help suppress the crazy leaking from his brain. He used to believe they were right. He’s not so sure anymore.

 

Caleb was an overcorrection. Ian can see that now, maybe could even see it then. Mickey was behind bars for the thousandth time, and Ian was so destroyed about it that he went actively searching for the exact opposite. It felt like fate, that he should find a kind, traditionally attractive man who _wanted_ Ian. A man who never threw a punch and called it love.

 

He’s glad it ended as quickly as it did. He’d grown tired of faking smiles, and acting like a completely different person just to please someone else.

 

He almost lost himself with Caleb. He almost stopped being the Ian who barged into Mickey Milkovich’s bedroom with a tire iron, or the Ian who would’ve taken a bullet to keep his best friend safe from her father.

 

When he looks in the mirror these days, he recognizes himself again. If nothing else, the road trip with Mickey woke him up.

 

-

 

_You’re a fucking dick, Gallagher, but I miss the shit out of you._

Ian lips curl into a smile in the darkness. The second text arrives only seconds later.

 

_Call me sometime, if you ever miss me too._

Ian wants to, more than anything in the world. He can hear Mickey’s voice in his head, as clearly as if he were right here in Ian’s bed. He misses Mickey in a way that’s tangible, feels it like a gnawing ache in his stomach. His thumb rests over the _call_ button. It would be so easy to fall right back into old habits. As easy as breathing.

 

Ian misses Mickey, but he loves him even more.

 

-

 

Franks crawls into the alibi one night, resurfacing for the first time in months. He slouches onto the barstool beside Ian, and latches onto the nearest bottle of liquor without waiting to be served. Kev watches this unfold, but doesn’t say a word in protest. The whole bar has gone deathly quiet, every eye suddenly trained upon Frank.

 

He’s filthy, head to toe. It’s impossible to miss the stench, wafting from his ragged clothes and leaking from his pores. It’s an unbearable combination of piss and shit and vomit, and Ian has to breathe through his mouth to stand it.

 

Ian’s never felt any sympathy for his father before, but something about the pathetic way Frank’s draped over his barstool feels like a knife between the ribs. He places a hand on Frank’s grimy shoulder, and shakes lightly. “Frank? Frank?”

 

Frank turns slowly. He blinks wearily up at Ian through red, hazy eyes. Ian can’t tell if Frank’s recognized him yet.

 

Frank’s mouth opens and closes. He raises his free hand to gently touch Ian’s cheek. His fingers are dry and cracked against Ian’s skin. “Monica?” he whimpers, wounded and only barely intelligible. “Mony?”

 

Ian shakes his head, and takes a shuddery breath. “No, Frank. It’s me. It’s Ian. Monica’s not here.”

 

He can’t make the right words come out. _Monica’s dead, Frank. Monica’s been dead for months._

Franks blinks blearily. His hand slips from Ian’s cheek. “Not Monica,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. He eyes Ian again, and for the first time, really sees him. “You look like your mother,” Frank says, and it’s stronger this time. “Look just like your mother.”

 

It’s not the first time Ian’s heard this, but it’s the first time he’s heard it from Frank, and it feels different somehow.

 

“I know I do,” Ian says softly.

 

“You’re lucky,” Frank slurs. His eyes are sliding shut again. He brings his head into his hands. “Monica was beautiful. Not like me.” Something wet drips onto the countertop. “I miss her. I can’t stop missing her.”

 

Ian aches everywhere.

 

Kev reclaims the bottle Frank had nicked, and pulls it far out of his reach. He raises his eyebrows at Ian. “You should take him home. Clean ‘im up. He needs help.”

 

Ian does. The lights are all doused when he gets back to the house, and everyone is already asleep. Ian drags his unconscious father upstairs to the bathtub, and tries his best to scrub away the heartache.

 

Halfway through, Frank wakes up. He watches Ian move a washcloth over his sagging flesh, and sighs deeply. “Shoulda left me behind,” he whispers. “Shoulda let me die.”

 

Ian finishes cleaning him up, and leaves him in Lip’s unoccupied room to sleep it off. When he wakes the next morning, Frank is gone.

 

-

 

Four months after leaving Mickey at the border, Ian discovers one of his tank tops abandoned and forgotten behind his dresser. The shirt is black and worn, but when Ian presses his nose against the fabric, he inhales a whiff of cigarette smoke and damp earth. He can’t believe how long Mickey’s scent has lingered here, can’t believe how _strong_ it still is.

 

Ian starts wearing the tank around the house, because he likes how short it is on him, and the way the neck is all stretched out from frequent wear. He likes that it makes him break out into a blinding smile every time he puts in on.

 

He wears it downstairs into the kitchen one morning, feeling happier than he has in a long time. Carl’s the only one in the room, and preoccupied with an overflowing bowl of cereal. He barely looks up when he hears Ian walk in, just raises his spoon in greeting and grunts a, “Morning.”

 

“Morning,” Ian says back. He heads for the coffee pot, and washes down his handful of pills with a glass of orange juice while he waits for the water to heat.

 

He doesn’t notice that he’s being stared at, until Carl breaks the silence. “That’s Mickey’s shirt, right?” His tone is light and curious, and not even remotely accusatory.

 

Ian’s always had a vague suspicion that his younger brother grew up hero-worshipping Mickey.

 

“Yeah,” Ian confirms. “You recognize it?”

 

Carl nods his head, and tosses another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m glad Mickey busted out. Debbie told me what happened. It’s kind of shit he got nailed for all that Sammi stuff in the first place. He’s a good guy.”

 

Ian’s a little taken aback. It’s the first time one of his siblings has ever had a kind word to say about Mickey. “You really think so?” he asks, a little too hopefully.

 

Carl nods again, more vigorously this time. There’s a light shining behind his eyes that makes Ian smile. “Yeah. He let me hold his gun, and he called me one time when I was in juvie.”

 

Ian frowns, because Mickey’d never mentioned that. Sure, Ian had kind of been off the rails at that point, but still. _He called Carl_. “What did he say?”

 

“Told me to keep my head down,” Carl tells him, shrugging. “Told me that I needed to do my time and get the fuck home, because my family needed me.” He glances minutely at Ian, then returns to his breakfast. “I always figured he was talking about you.”

 

Ian’s heart is pounding now, loud enough that Carl can probably hear it from across the room. He places a stabilizing hand on the counter, and inhales sharply. Without offering any explanation, he bolts back up the stairs and into his room.

 

He’s only half-aware of his actions as he digs through a pile of dirty laundry to unearth the burner phone. His hands are trembling as he flips it open, and dials the number that’s been tattooed to the backs of his eyelids for months now. He presses the phone to his ear, and stops breathing altogether.

 

There’s breathing on the other line, quiet and rapid. Ian wonders if it’s possible to _feel_ a smile over the phone.

 

“You never told me that you called Carl in juvie,” Ian says in a whisper. He’s really shaking now, head to toe.

 

Another moment passes before there’s an answer. “I forgot about that,” Mickey drawls through the phone. “Shit, does that seem like a long time ago.”

 

Ian’s eyes fall shut at the deep timber of his voice. He could write sonnets about Mickey’s voice, about the wrecked way he says Ian’s name mid-fuck, or the gravelly way he talks early in the morning.

 

He can’t believe it’s been four whole months since he last heard Mickey speak.

 

“Hi,” Ian says breathlessly. “I guess I should’ve started with that. Jesus, Mickey, _hi_.”

 

Mickey laughs, low and rumbly. “Hey, Gallagher. You finally miss me enough to pick up the damn phone?”

 

“I always miss you,” Ian says firmly. “Every day.”

 

“Oh yeah? What’s your boyfriend think of that?”

 

“I don’t have a boyfriend anymore,” Ian tells him.

 

Mickey goes quiet for a long minute. For one, horrifying second, Ian thinks he’s hung up. “Mick?” he asks urgently. “You still there?”

 

“I’m here,” Mickey says slowly. “I’m right here, Ian.” He pauses again, then, “Tell me about what happened with you and your guy.”

 

Ian isn’t sure what to say, because the truth is nothing really _happened._ The truth is, everything was fine until it wasn’t. There was no big fight. They didn’t drift apart, or fall out of love. The truth is, Ian liked Trevor, maybe even _loved_ him. But there’s a far more important truth, one that Ian has known for a long time.  

 

“He wasn’t you,” Ian says quietly. He’s not sure if this is what Mickey wants to hear, but he’s tired of beating around the bush.

 

To his surprise, Mickey chuckles lightly. “You just figure that out? Always thought you had more brains than that, Gallagher.” He’s silent for a long stretch. Finally, he says, “So what are you going to do?”

 

Ian’s brow furrows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

 

“You made your choice. And it sure as hell wasn’t me you chose.”

 

That stops Ian in his tracks. “I didn’t call you to fight, Mick. We’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime.”

 

“Then why did you call?”

 

“Because,” Ian huffs in frustration. His fingers around the phone have gone slick with sweat. “Because you asked me to.”

 

Mickey laughs again, humorlessly this time. “I _asked_ you to come with me, Ian. I didn’t ask for you to break up with your boyfriend for me.”

 

“It’s more complicated than that,” Ian protests. He can feel Mickey slipping away from him all over again, growing more and more distant with each passing second.

 

Mickey snorts, but it’s less amused now, and much angrier. “That’s the thing, Ian. It really isn’t.”

 

And the line goes dead.

 

-

 

More time passes, moving at a crawl. The trees change colors; the leaves shrivel up and die on the frozen ground. Something in Ian dies, too.

 

The texts stop. Ian can’t stand the sight of the burner phone sitting patiently on his dresser. He considers pitching it out the window, but can’t bring himself to go through with it. It finds a new home under his bed, hidden beneath an old, moldy towel.

 

He perfects the art of blocking Mickey from his conscious thoughts, but nothing he does can keep Mickey from haunting his dreams. He shows up every night like clockwork, dark-haired and grinning.

 

“Come with me,” he always says, one hand palming Ian’s cheek, eyes glittering like all the stars in the sky. “Come _with_ me, Ian.”

 

Ian wakes up drenched in sweat, gasping for air. He wakes up with tears in his eyes, and an anchor weighing down his stomach. He feels like he might sink straight through the floor.

 

Fiona eyes him over coffee one morning, and he can tell she’s mentally psyching herself up for something. She waits until they’re alone, and says, “Ian.”

 

Ian doesn’t look up. He stares into his mug of cold coffee, and counts the grounds swimming around near the top. “Fiona.”

 

“How long have you been having nightmares?”

 

Ian takes a breath. Most nights, he’s able to coax himself back to sleep with a glass of water and a pep talk. But sometimes. Sometimes he wakes up screaming, and nothing is enough to ease his trembling.

 

“Everyone has nightmares,” he tells her matter-of-factly. “It’s not a big deal.”   

 

He still isn’t looking at her, but he can tell she’s making a face. “Everyone wakes up screaming like they’re being stabbed to death? Do you think that’s normal?”

 

“It’s not a big deal.”

 

“Tell me what they’re about. The nightmares.”

 

He knows his sister well enough to know that she’s stubborn, and that she will sit here interrogating him all day if she has to. He knows it probably comes from a good place, a place reserved for worrying about her crazy little brother, but he also knows she doesn’t want to hear that Ian’s night terrors are rooted in the permanent scar tissue that is Mickey Milkovich.

 

“Monica,” he lies. “I dream about Monica dying.”

 

Ian glances up for the first time, to gauge her reaction, and immediately knows this is an acceptable answer. Fiona’s eyes soften in sympathy, and she reaches a hand out to clasp one of his.

 

“It’ll get easier,” she says quietly, nodding fervently like she really believes it. “It’s only been six months, Ian. These things take time.”

 

Ian wants to ask Fiona how much time it took _her_ to get over their mother’s death, but he knows that’s unfair. He nods, offers a weak smile, and says, “You’re right.”

 

One thing from their conversation sticks in his mind, and he falls asleep thinking about it.

 

Six months. Has it really been _six months?_

-

 

He starts to question it around month nine.

 

Maybe Ian’s been romanticizing his relationship with Mickey all this time. Maybe he’s remembering it all wrong, or maybe he’s only remembering the good stuff. Maybe he’s been torpedoing every relationship after Mickey, because he’s clinging onto a lie and vehemently refusing to let go.

 

“Why’d you always hate Mickey so much,” he asks Lip late one night.

 

Lip runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Ian, I don’t know. Because he didn’t deserve you, I guess.”

 

“Why didn’t he deserve me? Why _exactly_?”

 

Lip quirks a brow in surprise, probably at Ian’s adamancy. He shifts onto his hip to get more comfortable, and lights a cigarette. He blows out a breath of smoke, right in Ian’s eyes. “He was a fucking dick, Ian. Sent you home all the time with a broken face and a broken heart. I still can’t decide which is worse.”

 

Ian swallows against the rising pain in his chest. “Broken heart,” he says decisively. “That’s worse.”

 

Lip pushes the cigarette into Ian’s fingers, even though Ian’s been trying really hard to quit. “You’re making my point for me.”

 

They smoke without speaking for a while, until the room’s gone dark and their faces are lost to the shadows.

 

“I broke his heart, too, you know,” Ian tells him, finally breaking the silence. “A few times, actually.”

 

Lip holds his gaze, and for a moment, Ian thinks there’s something deeper hiding behind his eyes. And Ian remembers that once, a very long time ago, his brother loved a Milkovich, too. Lip never talks about Mandy, even gets angry if Ian brings her up. Ian has always assumed it was because he feels guilty about the way he treated her. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe Lip understands this whole thing with Mickey better than he lets on.

 

The moment passes quickly. Ian wonders if he imagined all of it.

 

-

 

A year after the border, Ian calls Mandy. He almost can’t believe how good it feels to hear her voice. He almost can’t believe how much he’s been missing his best friend, and not even realizing it.

 

He tells her that. _I missed you. I miss you right now. In my bones._

“I missed you, too, Ian,” she says sincerely. “You should come visit sometime. I got a new place in the city. I got a dog.”

 

When Ian smiles, happy tears prick in his eyes. He can picture it so clearly. Him and Mandy cuddled up on her couch in her apartment, the dog resting its face on their legs. He can picture laughter, and video games, and fighting over the last beer in the fridge. He can picture falling asleep in each other’s arms, and making breakfast together in the morning.

 

“I’ll come visit,” Ian promises, though he’s not sure if he’s telling the truth or not. “It’ll be like the good old days. It’ll be like you never left.”

 

Mandy laughs, and it’s infectious. “You mean the good old days when you were always sneaking around, and fucking my brother behind my back?”

 

Ian coughs to clear the blockage in his throat. He thinks about the phone under his bed. “You ever talk to Mickey?” he asks Mandy.

 

She hums into the receiver. “Not really. He sent me a postcard a while back, told me he was safe. I figured it’s better if I don’t call. Not for a while, at least.” She pauses thoughtfully. “What about you? I never asked, but I always assumed Mick headed your way after he busted out. He was never that good at staying away from you.”

 

Mandy’s his best friend, but something about this feels too personal for her ears. There’s something about those nights beneath the stars, wound up in Mickey like they’d never spent a day apart, that Ian can’t really bear to talk about. Those are the memories that belong to them, and them alone.

 

“The cops were keeping a pretty close eye on me back then. He probably figured it wasn’t worth the risk. Split before we got a chance to see each other.”

 

“But you would’ve?” Mandy presses. “If there was a way, you would’ve wanted to see him, right?”

 

He’s not sure why it matters so much to her, but it’s clear that it does. It’s clear that it matters a lot.

 

“Of course,” Ian tells her honestly. He can feel himself getting choked up, and he loathes himself for it. “Of course.”

 

“I don’t think he ever stopped loving you, Ian. Sometimes I worry that he never will.”

 

“Do you wish he would?”

 

“You’ve moved on, haven’t you? Last time we spoke, you had a new boyfriend. Things sounded like they were going really well for you.”

 

Ian almost laughs at that. _Had_ things been going well? On paper, they were probably perfect. A fucking fairytale for the modern ages. He used to think his relationship with Caleb was what it meant to grow up. To be a real adult. Now, he thinks he was just lying to himself.

 

“We broke up,” Ian says. “Me and the firefighter, I mean. He cheated on me. But you don’t need to worry, Mandy. I don’t think Mickey loves me anymore. We didn’t exactly end on the best of terms.”

 

She’ll think he’s talking about Sammi, and the arrest. About the porch, and the official end. It’s probably better that way.

 

Mandy snorts. “Don’t be stupid, Ian. You know better than that.”

 

-

 

Ian breaks one night, after too much to drink. After too much heartbreak. He crawls under his bed, and latches onto the burner phone like a lifeline.

 

He’s _so_ drunk, and he’s very aware of how much of a bad idea this is.

 

_I’m sorry. For lots of shit._

He sends that one, and then decides it sounds too forced, too robotic. The second one is messier, but Ian thinks it sounds more like himself, and that makes him feel better.

 

_I love you like I’ll never love another human being. You’re my favorite person in the world._

It’s still not enough. Mickey deserves to hear that a thousand times more, then a thousand after that. It’s not enough, but Ian thinks it’s a start.

 

-

 

Ian waits two weeks for a response, but it never comes. Maybe Mickey got rid of that number. Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to Ian.

 

It’s been almost eighteen months exactly. The time is turning Ian grey.

 

He runs into Trevor one day, in a grocery store of all places. They crash into one another—quite literally—in the cereal aisle. The items in Trevor’s arms go flying, and he has to bend down to pick them up.

 

Ian stands above him, arms empty, and tries to come up with something to say. He wonders if Trevor hates him, wonders if he’s moved on.

 

Trevor finishes scooping up his scattered groceries, and holds them more securely against his chest. He eyes Ian, up and down, and whistles long and low. “You look like shit, man.” Despite everything, his eyes are kind.

 

Ian huffs a quiet, relieved laugh. “Thanks,” he says, and it’s sincere. “This is sort of awkward, isn’t it?”

 

Trevor shrugs. He grins, big and goofy and not at all angry. “Water under the bridge, Ian. I get it. I have an ex like that, too.”

 

That knocks Ian a few steps backwards. His eyebrows skyrocket to his hairline. “You have an escaped convict for an ex-boyfriend, too? We really _do_ have a lot in common.”

 

He laughs good-naturedly and shakes his head. “Nah. Nothing nearly as dramatic as that. I just meant a guy I was stuck on for a long time. A guy I would’ve done anything to be with.” He nudges Ian with his shoulder. “Like help him run from the feds.”

 

Ian half-smiles. He stares at his feet. “You never told me about him. All that time we were together, it never came up?”

 

When Ian looks up, Trevor’s smile is still in place, but it’s softer now. Almost sad. “I didn’t really talk about him much for a while. I thought it would be better to just forget. Move on, clean slate. That kind of thing.”

 

“Why’d you change your mind?”

 

Trevor raised a brow. “Can’t you guess? It didn’t work. I worked so hard to rewrite our entire history—hard enough that I almost believed all the shit I’d made up—but it didn’t work. I couldn’t forget him.”

 

Ian shoves both hands into the front pockets of his jeans to keep them from shaking. “What happened to him? Where is he now?”

 

Trevor pauses for a beat. He grabs a box of cereal from the shelf behind Ian, and takes a deep breath. “He moved away after we broke up. A few years later, I got a phone call from his mother. She said he’d been diagnosed with cancer, and that he’d died.”

 

Ian’s stomach hurts. He can’t look Trevor in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he says. It sounds cheap and meaningless, but there’s nothing else for him to say.

 

Trevor laughs again, and this time Ian thinks it might be to keep from crying. “Me too. I’m really, really, _really_ fucking sorry.”

 

-

 

Ian doesn’t make the decision rashly. To be completely honest, he’s not really sure _when_ he made the decision. He doesn’t think it happened overnight, doesn’t think he came to the conclusion one day.

 

It may have taken him two years to realize what the decision was, but it has always been there, floating around in the back of his mind like a promise.

 

He takes his time packing, takes his time soaking in the memory of this home he’s shared for so long with his family. He wants to remember this place, wants to remember every detail. So many crucial moments of his life played out right here. Every inch of this house is steeped in joy and sadness and, above all, _love._

 

He spends his last days with his family, and they’re some of the happiest days of his life. He takes the time to help Liam with his homework, and go shooting with Carl, and visit with Franny and Debbie. He sits with Lip in their old bedroom, the one they’d shared for an entire childhood, and stays up laughing and smoking until the early morning hours. He hands over his last paycheck to Fiona, gives her a crushing hug, and makes sure to thank her for everything. Because he knows that she gave him _everything._

 

He doesn’t tell any of his siblings where he’s going, or what he plans to do when he gets there, but he thinks they probably know already. He thinks they’ve all sort of figured out how to understand one another without saying a single word.

 

Ian loves them, all of them, and he _is_ sad to be leaving them behind. The Gallaghers are a family unit unlike any other, and the bond created between these six brothers and sisters is uniquely strong. They took care of each other when Frank and Monica wouldn’t, and they all made it out alive.

 

He loves them, and he loves this home they’ve created for each other, but his heart is somewhere else now, and it’s time for him to move on.

 

Ian’s packing the final item when his cell chimes from his bed. He picks it up and smiles at the message from Mandy.

 

 _Thanks,_ he texts back. _Wish me luck._

Her response comes seconds later. _You don’t need luck, shithead. Just need to get your ginger ass moving!!!_

Ian slips the phone into his pocket, rips the zipper of his suitcase shut, and throws his backpack over one shoulder. He takes one last look around his bedroom, eyes touching lovingly on each item in the room. He closes the door softly behind him.

 

It’s the middle of the night as he creeps down the kitchen stairs, and he’s very aware that he’s in a house full of sleeping Gallaghers. The kitchen is doused in darkness, and he has to feel his way to the door. He bends down to slide his feet into his boots.

 

Something about that makes Ian smile. Soon, he thinks, he’ll only need sandals.

 

He says his final goodbyes to the house, and wraps his hand around the doorknob. He’s crying as he crosses the threshold, but the tears aren’t sad, and he’s still smiling.

 

He read something once, and it swims through his thoughts now, playing on a loop as he marches towards a new horizon.

 

_For whatever we lose, it’s always our self we find in the sea._

-

 

Ian takes off his shoes when his feet hit sand. He digs his toes into the warm granules, loves the way they slide and sink. The sun beats mercilessly down, and Ian feels it like a hug. He hasn’t stopped grinning like a madman since Chicago, and he doesn’t see that changing anytime soon.

 

This is right. This is where he’s supposed to be. He knows it like he’s never known anything before.

 

There’s a man, standing a few yards in front of him, up to his ankles in the sea. The back of his head is covered in inky black hair, and it stands in stark contrast to the porcelain of his skin. The sky is blue, blue, blue and it’s everywhere. Ian’s eyes hurt from how beautiful it all is. His lungs burn from the absence of oxygen.

                       

He’s walking before he even realizes it, closing the distance. He can feel his heart growing stronger with each step.

 

He stops when he’s within an arm’s length. A combination of sand and saltwater squelches between his toes. “Mick,” he calls softly. The name fills his chest and fills his eyes. _Mickmickmickmick._

 

The man goes visibly stiff. It takes him a long, heart-wrenching minute to turn. When he does, his eyes are the color of the ocean. Ian drinks him in like a man dying of thirst. He’s pretty sure his smile is going to split his face cleanly in two.

 

“Ian?” Mickey whispers, almost fearfully. “Are you real?”

 

Right now, two years feels like a lifetime. Ian wants to laugh, and cry, and shoot sunlight out of his pores. He feels so much that it leaves him shaking.

 

“I’m sorry that I’m late,” he says, and the words come out all choppy and shaky. He cups both of his hands around Mickey’s face, and almost disintegrates at the contact. His knees are all wobbly, and threatening to give out. “God, I’m so fucking late. Am I _too_ late?”

 

There aren’t stars in Mickey’s eyes, there’s a whole galaxy. “You’re my favorite person in the world, too, Ian. You know that?”

 

And Ian does. He knows that.


End file.
